


Phase Transition

by gardinha



Category: Once and Again
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardinha/pseuds/gardinha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have always been a cliché waiting to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phase Transition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sugarpromises](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarpromises/gifts).



> Thanks to my fabulous betas Emily, Ginny, Jimena and Sheila. You are all rock stars.

From: esammler@yahoo.com  
To: jessliz86@hotmail.com  
Date: Thu, June 19, 2002 at 3:42 PM  
Subject: Greetings from Chicago

Hi there.

How are things going down under? Here at home things are pretty great. Mom's doing so much better. Besides, school's out and I've been spending lots of time with Katie, listening to music and going to the movies and just hanging out. The other day we actually watched Scooby-Doo: we had fun (it was like interactive moviegoing because the theater was packed and people reacted loudly to everything up there on the screen). Has it opened in Australia yet? You should go if it's playing in Sydney.

BTW, have you finally – FINALLY – finished unpacking? So, you know, Mom and I have a bet going and she's convinced you're all but settled in. I guess it's only natural she has such faith in you... moms want to believe the best regarding their sons, despite previous (and extensive) proof to the contrary. I know better :) Not that I mind much. After all, you wouldn't be my brother otherwise. Truth be told I've come to miss your messy lazy self these past few weeks. I guess the saying is true. Absence does make the heart grow fonder.

Love,

Jess

P.S.: Send everyone my love.  
P.P.S.: The pictures you've posted are great. The city is beautiful.

\--

Eli stumbles over the boxes the moment he crosses the threshold. It is the third time this Wednesday alone, and one too many in the several days before. Yet, he doesn't make a move to start tidying the room, just steps around the stuff scattered on the floor until he can reach the bed, then dives into it face first.

Face down on the pillows, eyes closed, he wills himself to sleep -- tries and tries to no avail, but it's the afternoon still, and he's never been one to fall asleep in the middle of the day.

"He's such an energetic kid," his parents used to say. He's sure they felt it was an endearing quality when he was younger, some quirky disposition that accounted for his bouncing all over the place. As he grew up though, and the energy turned into this chronic distraction regarding so many things school-related, they weren't so amused.

He can't blame them.

Right now – thousands of miles from home – he's again stuck in limbo. It is frustrating and disheartening, even more so because, for a while there, going to Australia had been the goal. The future, he managed to convince himself, lay across the ocean.

So he flew over the ocean and came here.

Another country, and he's just like before, in all the ways that count. He rolls over, gets to the edge of the bed, opens one eye, then another. He can see boxes piled upon boxes, luggage that he didn't care to unpack, three magazines that report on Sydney's music scene, the pair of shoes that landed by the wall opposite, near the window. He can see outside -- beyond.

He decides then and there: he can do right by himself. He can do right by the people he loves. He is like before, in all the ways that count. It doesn't have to be a bad thing.

\---

Two weeks later, Eli gets a part-time job in a coffee shop. His father teases him at first, comments playfully on Eli's being bossed around by an Australian version of Jake. "The more things change, the more they stay the same," Rick says, to the family's good-natured laugh.

Eli doesn't mind. After working at Booklovers for the better part of a year, he knows the score on waiting on people. It is something he's become good at. Behind the counter or around the room, he finds he's quite adept at charming customers, male and female alike. With good service and a smile, he earns plenty of tips, besides the occasional phone numbers scribbled on paper napkins and the more upfront invitations.

He endures it all like a champion, Grace likes to tell him whenever she stops by. One day, she happens to witness the action while he serves the table of one of the more flirtatious regulars, and he can picture her grin even while he has his back to her.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asks her the moment he comes over.

She looks up at him, her serious expression in place. It doesn't last (it never does). She is cracking up before he sits down across from her.

"Can't you tell?" she answers, and smiles some more.

He smiles back, rolls his eyes. "I guess. But you know me. I like to--"

"--make sure the customer is happy," she finishes for him. "As you should."

It is the same every time. Since school started, back in July, Grace's made a habit of visiting Bill's several times a week. She arrives with a backpack full of books and with her hands full of notes, and takes the table closest to the door. Every now and again, she brings a classmate along. Most days, though, it's just Grace and her many school assignments, while he goes around and does what his employer pays him to do.

They follow the script. "So, what can I get you?" he asks.

She opens her backpack, takes the chemistry textbook out. Turns the pages till she reaches what he supposes is today's lesson. Props it up so he can read it: it is a chapter entitled "Le Chatelier's Principle".

"I see," he says, then reaches over and pats her on the hand, squeezes her hand in his for good measure. "One mocha latte, medium, then."

She squeezes back. "Thanks." One word, and she lets go.

He stands up, makes to leave. When he is by the counter, waiting on her order, he glances back. Grace is all attention, focused on the pages she scattered over the table, a grimace on her face. He can't help it; he chuckles.

She looks up that second, catches him in the act. For a moment there, he panics. He has this talent for hurting her regardless of intention – even when he promises himself (and her) he won't – and he's afraid he's done it again. But then she makes a mockery of her distress. As he looks on, she fakes a frustration that defies belief and follows it up with a small smile.

It's nothing she hasn't done before.

His heart skips a beat all the same.

\---

From: esammler@yahoo.com  
To: jessliz86@hotmail.com  
Date: Sat, August 21, 2002 at 11:47 AM  
Subject: The baby in the picture

Hey, Eli.

We've just got the sonogram pictures Dad and Lily sent us. It is pretty neat, isn't it? I knew, from books and school, that we could see that many details at this stage, but I guess it's different when the baby in the picture is your family. It feels different at any rate. It feels real -- in a way that it hadn't before. I'm gonna be a big sister to this little person we'll watch grow up.

Love,

Jess

P.S.: Katie says hi. She's making fun of me right now, because I'm looking forward to being the coolest big sister ever. She has a younger brother (he's six) and she likes to remind me that I won't be that excited about siblinghood in a few years time (she gives me four years 'til I change my mind).

\--

In the messages he sends Jessie, he doesn't mention that he has trouble adjusting. Most days he is fine with whatever curveball Lily's pregnancy throws at them -- he's distracted Zoe from the occasional bouts of insecurity and jealousy; he's listened to his dad talk about those home renovations he's planning to make; he's driven Lily to her doctor's appointments around the city -- but there are times, if few and far in between, that this strange sort of uneasiness sets in.

It is an emotion that he can't readily shake, try as he might. He feels it now as he sits by the table in a sun-soaked kitchen, surrounded by family that takes to arguing baby names like they are in competition.

They keep up a relentless pace, Sunday brunch forgotten save for himself and Grandmother Barbara. His father, who's been on a jazzy phase of late, favors Ella. Lily tells them she has no objections. Judy, baby name book in hand, makes the case for Madeleine. Zoe lets them know she likes Maddie all right, but she'd rather her mother names the baby Matilda. Grace, for her part, wavers between Matilda and Cassandra. They're two of her favorite characters, Grace explains, and their sister will be the luckiest girl if she happens to resemble either one.

His choices, if he were to admit to them, are in a similar vein. He would name her after a person he admires, a rocker perhaps, or an athlete. He figures that in this, like in much else, people try to be as they are wont to do.

He does, and makes the effort to engage in conversation, whether or not he feels like it. "Carrie," he contributes.

They pause for a second, consider his suggestion. Then, "Carrie as in Carrie Bradshaw?" Judy wonders, looking surprised and tickled in equal measure.

Eli shakes his head, and is about to answer when Grace cuts him off. "Carrie as in Carrie Brownstein." She glances at him from her place, two seats to his left. "After the lead guitarist from Sleater-Kinney," she concludes with a beaming smile.

He laughs at her enthusiasm. "She shoots, she scores." Then he reaches over and takes the croissant she'd been playing with. "I see I've taught you well, Grace," he says, to her protests and the others' amusement, the stolen pastry already on his plate.

She gives up without much of a fight. "Why, thank you, Eli," she quips and doesn't miss a beat. "I don't know what I would've done without your guidance. I mean, is there anyone here as qualified as yourself in the mysteries and secrets of the Pacific Northwest indie rock scene?"

"Well, one never knows." He grins, then continues. "Maybe Judy or Lily or my father are wise to the ways of indie rock bands."

And so it goes. Back and forth, they tease each other and entertain their audience. It's all fun and games after that, with everyone joining in. It works. By the time they finish the meal, a half hour later, he can look ahead and feel something besides apprehension.

There's excitement there, and confidence too. He likes his chances. He figures that after Jessie and Zoe he's going to be three times lucky, and conveniently doesn't add Grace into the mix.

\---

From: esammler@yahoo.com  
To: jessliz86@hotmail.com  
Date: Tue, October 4, 2002 at 06:27 AM  
Subject: You rock my world

Hey,

Thanks for the audio files. I played them over for Mom and Henry the other night and it was a success. I think they really enjoyed the songs; Mom was even humming the melody to one of them as they left for their date. So, consider yourself praised. For once, these guys you've been playing with sound good. I guess you've finally managed to convert me (and Mom and Henry) to your indie rock ways: I even liked the Radiohead covers and you know I'm not into them. Maybe a future making music awaits you, after all. You should look into that :)

Love,

Jess

\--

"Dinner's ready," he calls out, poking his head into Grace's room.

She lifts her gaze from the stack of papers she's been flipping through just a moment before, and looks at him from her spot on the bed. "Okay," she says and thanks him, then makes to hide whatever it is she's holding.

The gesture gets his attention. These days he's more and more curious about the things that concern her, so he steps inside to investigate further. When he reaches the bed, he can see the papers for what they are. She has pamphlets from universities all across the country, from New York to California, and none from Illinois that he is aware of.

"Planning to run away?" he asks, flopping down beside her.

"That's not it," she begins, then glances down, trying to avoid his eyes. She continues with, "These are really – really - great educational institutions and I..." until she trails off in mid-sentence.

He watches her in silence while she scatters the pamphlets over the bright red covers, and touches her fingers to one and another and another. "Am I a horrible person for wanting to get that far away from home?" she starts again, not lifting her gaze.

"C'mon now," he protests, nudging her gently. "You're not a horrible person." She looks up then, and meets his gaze. He grins at her. "Not for wanting to apply to these colleges, at least."

She grins back, looking a little relieved. "Thanks a bunch, Eli," and she takes the joke in stride. He is a little relieved himself.

"So," he blurts out, the words leaving him in a rush. "You'll be leaving us for California, huh?"

"That, or New York," she says. "I like UCLA and Berkeley, but Columbia isn't half bad either." Her tone is gentle, unassuming, but it doesn't stop his stomach from bottoming out onto the floor.

He nods, takes it all in. Then he moves his hand, and they are nearly touching, and his fingers brush against the back of her hand. He waits her out.

She hesitates for a second. Then she tilts her head a little to the side, and looks him straight in the eye. When she speaks, her voice is quiet. "For what it's worth, I'm gonna miss talking to you."

At first, he doesn't respond. He isn't one for preemptive goodbyes, nor for separations. Still, here at this place (another hemisphere, another continent, another country altogether), he's been trying to do better. And so he acknowledges Grace's declaration, even if he has to resort to humor to be there for her.

"As you should. After all, I'm such an eloquent conversationalist," he teases.

The corner of her mouth rises and she says nothing.

He marches ahead, content in the knowledge that he's managed to distract her – that she let herself be distracted, and is now playing along. "If looks could kill, Grace..."

"I'm not mad, Eli. I'm... amused."

"Amused is good." He leans forward, searches her face. "Isn't it?"

"It is." She smacks his arm lightly, playfully, to get her point across. "By the way, have you been going through some dictionaries lately? Eloquent? Conversationalist?"

"Hey!"

She chuckles at his halfhearted indignation.

"I take offense at the implication."

"Sorry."

"You're not sorry at all."

She is watching him with a crooked smile and a cocked eyebrow throughout. He shoves her lightly and she laughs, standing up. She reaches her hand down towards his and he takes it, letting her haul him off the bed.

She keeps her hand wrapped around his as they take the stairs, all the way down to the dining room door.

\---

From: esammler@yahoo.com  
To: jessliz86@hotmail.com  
Date: Wed, December 22, 2002 at 05:01 PM  
Subject: Season's Greetings

Happy holidays!!!

I know we're three days from celebrating but I wanted to make sure I got to you in time. So, without further ado, I wish you a Merry Christmas, Australian style. Whatever that is :) I'm guessing it involves all the usual trappings (the songs and carols that don't let up, the last-minute shopping that is a tradition in itself, the Christmas dinner that brings together family and friends) plus the summer sun, and the bright blue sky, and the beach.

Try as I might, I can't quite picture it. For me, this holiday has always been about snow falling on Chicago and everything that follows. I need snow covered streets, and snowmen in the front yard, and ice skating at Warren Park. Otherwise, it doesn't feel like Christmas to me. I'm lacking in imagination, I know... You can help with that by taking tons of striking photos these next few days. Just send them over as soon as you upload them.

Love,

Jess

P.S.: We're going over to Henry's parents for Christmas day/dinner. I've met them before, actually. They are really nice people. Anyway, this is huge. Mom and Henry, they are making quite a statement.  
P.P.S.: This year, we got baby Ella for (early) Christmas. Next year, we might get a stepfather!

\--

He finds Grace outside. The morning after Christmas, he finds her outside all by herself, sitting with her feet hanging off the edge of the deck. From his vantage point by the glass panel doors he can see that her shoulders are naked, and her hair is up so that her neck is bare, too.

"Hey," he says as he approaches. She glances back, greets him with a smile. Then he almost falls down between one step and the next.

She laughs at him; keeps laughing 'till he is beside her. "What was that?" she asks, tilting her head to the side to look up at him.

He wants to tell her the truth -- 'fess up to the fact that, for a split second, he wanted nothing more than to kiss the nape of her neck. Instead, he says nothing and answers with a shrug, then sits down next to her.

She nudges him, joking right after. "I guess all that eggnog you had last night did go to your head."

"Ha, ha. Very funny, Grace." He makes to tickle her, to distract her so she stops needling him. He fails.

"I've gotta tell you, Eli, this is quite the disappointment."

"How so?"

"Well," she starts, mock serious, "you're this family's self-appointed bad-boy rocker wannabe. You're supposed to have a higher alcohol tolerance than that."

"Oh, no. This cannot stand. I won't allow it," he shoots back, playing along. He can fake outrage with the best of them. "I'll have to do something to repair my damaged reputation." He grins, then continues. "Something extreme. Like swimming naked. Or borrowing Dad's new car without permission."

"Or helping me break curfew," she suggests, amused. "Though I could settle for you just covering for me whenever I need it."

He looks at her then. The dawn light is invading her eyes, casting shadows on her face. He takes a moment before he speaks. "I could do that. But only if get to tag along."

"That can be arranged," she offers in a soft voice, but the words ring loud and clear.

He swallows, staring into the ocean ahead. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She says it like she means it and he shifts expectantly. By the time he glances back at her, after a few instants of rehearsing the question, she has moved towards him, and the length of their legs are touching. She sets gentle fingers against his knee.

"Are we really gonna do this?"

He nods slowly, places his hand over hers. "It's been a long time coming," he states with conviction. And there are many things left to be said, but she rests her head on his shoulder, and her throat is bare.

He leans down, brushes his cheek against hers, lets his mouth slide down skin, presses his lips to the base of her neck. He feels her shudder. He feels her tangling her hands into his hair, holding onto him.

He's about to kiss her when they hear it: Ella cries, and the house wakes. Grace laughs, dropping her head to his chest. "It figures," he says, and joins in the laughter. Then he whispers a promise for later, before he lets go of her and she pulls away.

\---

That night, he hesitates in the corridor outside Grace's door, light shining around the edges. He knocks then waits, shifting his weight from one foot to the other until he is face to face with her.

She invites him in without words.

Door pulled close, three steps inside, his name in her voice. And then he is reaching for her in the dark. Lips hard on hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth. Warm fingers beneath his shirt, tracing their way up his spine, and a slight pressure that made him arch. Leaning into her, against her, and he doesn't want it to stop.

His back against the wall, unexpectedly. A surprised gasp; his. Grace's quiet laughter. Then his thumbs are framing her face. Pulling her head to his, and his lips meet hers again.

Against the wall, and she draws back, just a little. She reaches out a hand to touch his face, skating it an inch or two above his cheek, and when she says his name, and her voice is different than he's ever heard her, he feels alive with a kind of happiness that makes his chest ache.

\---

From: esammler@yahoo.com  
To: jessliz86@hotmail.com  
Date: Tue, February 17, 2002 at 10:56 PM  
Subject: Gotcha.

Newsflash, Eli: you can't lie to me. You can't do it over the phone, and you can't do it in print either. So stop pretending already -- I'm onto you (and Grace), and it didn't take long for me to figure it all out. I was there last year, remember? When you guys were circling each other, before that Mr. Dimitri's mess went down. You two just be careful, okay. And can you please make sure that Grace REALLY answers my next messages? She's been sending me nothing but weather and school-related reports for these last couple of weeks, and it's weirding me out. I worry about her, despite all appearances to the contrary. Just tell Grace that.

Love,

Jess

\--

It happens in his room sometimes, with them stumbling towards the bed, him pushing her back onto the sheets and her staring up at him, thumbs pressing into his cheekbones, sliding over his skin. It happens inside the house, late at night, whenever they feel dumb and reckless. She arches her back, drives her hips against his and he covers her mouth with his palm to muffle her cries.

Sometimes he waits till she falls asleep, but only on those evenings when she asks. "Stay," she says, and he does as he's told, lying beside her, warm, enveloped in the scent of them, of what they have done.

Of what they have become to each other.

And so he touches her with a kind of desperation, with fingers clutching at flesh, just intense enough to leave faint marks but not enough to hurt. She arches into it, then hides the evidence afterwards. And he, looking at long sleeves and high-collared shirts and excuses, feels guilty for a while, until she smiles at him across the room.

He enjoys watching her smile. It does amazing little things to her eyes and he follows the subtle changes, matches a certain twinkle with the right emotion.

Sometimes it's concern, because she's this type of person. She worries. On these occasions, she confesses she is afraid, that it won't be much longer before their parents find them out, and he tries to chase her worries away. Other times, there's genuine happiness: when she kisses him and doesn't check to make sure no one is watching.

They have always been a cliché waiting to happen: the good girl and the screw-up boy. To outsiders, he might be labeled her walk on the wild side, her opportunity of doing something crazy and unexpected before going away to college, before wising up. But appearances are often deceiving (hers is) and therein lays the appeal; in the fact that she can be daring and flawed and cracking with him, and accepts nothing else in return. With him, she shatters. She blows up whatever preconceived notions others might have of her and he loves her for that.

He loves her for the way she talks, with big words and long sentences, because she follows every time her eyes wanders with even, clear gaze and attention. And he likes attention on her, attention and flushed skin.

Blush spreads across her chest, over her stomach, and she looks beautiful. Sometimes he says it aloud, and she blushes some more, and he smiles. Sometimes he is silent, taking it all in, memorizing the glow he has put there.

He finds himself understanding a kind of attraction he's never experienced before. He begins to understand how beauty can be born of affection, and that second glances can hold the greatest rewards. And so it is with a sense of wonder that he embraces the changes within himself, the ones she has triggered, because he thinks maybe everyone wants the same. Everyone wants to have their lives twisted by the presence of someone who matters.

\---

This is how life is when things start breaking: there is his juggling of work and weekend night gigs, and Grace's school routine, and their brushing of hands whenever they pass each other in the house. There is the occasional homework lying among his music sheets, and the arrangements of shoes next to his bed, and his voice wavering ever so slightly whenever he tells curious relatives and friends that he isn't seeing anyone. There is the weight of her legs around his hips and the way her chin fits exactly, exactly, in the crook of his neck.

But the universe tends towards chaos, and so a minute gesture gives them away, and Grace shatters, hands shaking, eyes big against pale cheeks and he is struggling to keep his composure. And somewhere, in all of it, he looks at their parents across the room and says, "We did nothing wrong."

His father just raises an eyebrow. He's always hated when adults do that, when they throw things you say back at you as if you have no right to say anything in the first place.

"We've done nothing wrong," Eli insists, cutting through the silence, willing him and Lily to understand.

"I suppose it was the rightness of the situation that had you sneaking around," his father finally says.

Eli flinches, even though he is expecting something of the sort, an accusation. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Grace doing the same. He reaches over, takes her hand without thinking. He can feel their parents' gazes on their entwined fingers.

They don't have to hide anymore.

And still, that isn't how things are supposed to happen, in the kitchen, like this: their concealed little world coming apart, because he was careless and she was distracted, and he was playing with her hair.

He wants to ignore the perplexed faces, the angry looks. He wants to walk out on them, head out the door, and make sure they know the shoe fits, but Grace is squeezing his hand, leaning on him, and he's reminded that she trusts him not to hurt her, and so he stands his ground. "We didn't know how to break it to the two of you. We want--"

"How long has this been going on?" Lily halts his excuses. His breath catches in his throat and, for a moment, he doesn't know what to do. He glances at Grace, and sees apprehension in her eyes.

He can tell there is also determination. There is also shared realization that this is when something needs to happen, if it's going to happen at all, so it doesn't surprise him, not really, to hear her saying, "Three months," as if it isn't fraught with all sorts of possibilities.

"Three months." Lily's voice is strangled against the morning light.

She takes a step forward, and stares intently at them. Three months is too much time -- more than enough time, he knows, considering they are two regular teenagers living under the same roof. He feels panic rising in him. He feels it rising in Grace as she digs fingernails into his palm, even as she stands beside him, unmoving, holding her mother's scrutinizing gaze.

"Gracie..." Her name in Lily's lips is almost like a question. "Have you--"

"Mom!"

"I think I have the right to know what my seventeen-year-old daughter is up to."

Somehow, he suspects Grace doesn't think so, but keeps quiet. He waits for her to say something, anything. The air is heavy with tension and, from where he is standing, Eli can sense his father's concern. He feels grateful for that.

And then Grace is speaking, telling her mother not to worry, that she's being careful, and he is focusing on the tiles on the wall, trying to avoid the implications of what has just been said. But there is only so much one can avoid for so long, and so he finds himself squeezing her hand, facing their parents.

"I see," Lily says, and then her jaw tightens. "You should know better than to be this irresponsible. What if something had happened? What if..." Her voice trails off into a whimper. She looks at Grace like she has broken her heart.

It's another burden he will carry, that of being the one having sex with Grace behind her mother's and his father's and everyone else's backs. It is what makes him 'deserving' of Lily's furious expression as she walks away, of his father's disappointment as he follows. It is what has him slumped against the wall, crouching down and covering his face.

"It'll be all right," Grace whispers as she kneels, her hands on his knees.

"Really?" he asks, hating himself for the moment of self-pity.

She answers with the only word he has left her. "Yeah," she says, touching her hand to his face, and it's almost enough.

\---

From: esammler@yahoo.com  
To: jessliz86@hotmail.com  
Date: Tue, April 25, 2002 at 04:48 PM  
Subject: The star-crossed lovers of Casa (Manning) Sammler

Read this in class the other day. It reminded me of you and Grace, what with your fighting parental disapproval/oppression in the name of young love.

> O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo  
> Deny thy father and refuse thy name;  
> Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,  
> And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
> 
> (…) 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;--  
> Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.  
> What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,  
> Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part  
> Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!  
> What's in a name? that which we call a rose  
> By any other name would smell as sweet;  
> So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,  
> Retain that dear perfection which he owes  
> Without that title:--Romeo, doff thy name;  
> And for that name, which is no part of thee,  
> Take all myself.

P.S.: Sorry about that :) NOT.

\--

It is somehow much colder than it looks this night in April, and Grace has her arms around her body as she makes her way to the car. Her hair is blowing in the wind, the little clips she wears to keep it away from her face useless. He smiles at that.

She smiles back as she approaches, her eyes laughing, and steps easily inside his arms. She leans into him, and he can feel the familiar shapes and curves, the brush of hipbones and breasts against his clothed skin. She smells like baby powder and expensive coffee and the breeze of an unseasonably cool evening and, underneath it all, he thinks she smells like him.

"Did they wear you out?" he asks, pulling back a little. She babysits her English teacher's kids on Wednesdays and Eli, as the "official" boyfriend, is the one who picks her up.

"Nah..." She shakes her head for emphasis. "I'm a tough gal."

"Is that so?"

"Of course."

And she is. She has strength stored in her. He can sense it in her touch sometimes, in the way her fingers graze his flesh. He can sense it now, with his hand resting on the small of her back, as he urges her into the car.

"It was a good night's work, Eli."

"You had fun, then."

She laughs, the gentle laugh he loves. "I guess. The boys were in a good mood, so that made things easier. I even had the time to flip through some magazines, get some tips on boys and feminine wiles."

"I suppose I should be frightened..." he jokes, turning to look at her. "Like really, really frightened."

"Chicken." She leans back, resting her head on the car seat and shaking loose strands of hair. When she speaks, her voice pitches red and lusty in the shadows. "You might as well take a chance and benefit from I've what learned. Guaranteed satisfaction, or something of the sort..."

He reaches over and touches her cheek and her jaw, and when her eyes close, he brushes a finger across her eyelids, and feels the little tickles of her eyelashes across his fingertips. "Just don't go on making any promises you can't keep."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

A pause, and then his finger slides down her chin and down her throat. His voice strikes against the air.

"I know."

But even as he says the words, he is suddenly gripped by something cold and hard and dark resembling not fear, but an uncertainty so encompassing he almost sees it hover above them. Everyone has been so intent on reminding him that she has this future (this bright, opportunity-filled future he shouldn't interfere with), and so he can't help resenting her, just a little.

"Hey..." He leans back, his face turned towards her and waits 'til she opens her eyes.

She echoes his greeting, then hesitates for a moment. He watches as her face goes quiet and her gaze grows serious. "You could follow me. You could go to wherever it is that I'm going."

"I could," he says, rolling the word around in his mouth. "I might."

She nods and half-smiles. "Good."

"But Grace...?"

"Yeah?"

"If for whatever reason we can't make it together-"

"We'll figure something out," she says, covering his hand with her own.

A long silence follows, and he stares at her, memorizing lines that have already been memorized. Then it comes from nowhere, and from every instinct of greed he has in him. "You could wait."

"I could," she murmurs into the dark. "I guess I will."

He wants to believe her; fears anything that might change her mind, because he knows that he will and he needs her to do the same. But he lets go for a moment, and thaws, and smiles. "It's settled, then." And then his fingers are in her hair, and his mouth is hard against hers and he can taste the future in her mouth.

\---

From: esammler@yahoo.com  
To: jessliz86@hotmail.com  
Date: Tue, June 8, 2002 at 04:48 PM  
Subject: I'll be seeing you...

… in a few days. Have a safe trip back home.

Love,

Jess

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: Eli, Grace, Jessie and everybody else you recognize here belong to Edward Zwick, Marshall Herskovitz, Bedford Falls Company, Touchstone Television, and ABC. I just own the words of my story. The poetic excerpts that Jessie sends Eli are from the play "Romeo and Juliet", by William Shakespeare.


End file.
